Noble V: Greylancer (16 page)

“Stop, stand back!” shouted a voice, along with the sound of horseshoes clopping in
the distance. The sound grew louder until the mob parted before Greylancer, and three
armored riders on black horses appeared. “We are with Lord Mayerling’s patrol unit.
Are you Lord Greylancer?” the giant on the lead horse asked.

“I am.”

“Ah, so you are. Please forgive the people of this village.”

The three patrolmen dismounted their horses.

“They were merely acting out of devotion,” said Greylancer. “Mayerling is a ruler
to be envied.”

“Such gracious words. We have orders to ensure your safe arrival at the castle. This
way, please.” The patrolman raised his hand, and a blue shuttlecraft descended from
the sky and hovered three meters overhead.

“That won’t be necessary. My chariot awaits.” Greylancer pointed behind him. He shook
his entire blood-stained body in one vicious motion, and for a moment, he disappeared
in a crimson haze. When the haze dissipated, the Noble and his cape were utterly free
of blood.

“You are exactly as his lordship described. Then allow us to accompany you to the
castle.”

“No need.”

“That would leave us delinquent in our duties. We have orders not to leave your side,
if we should happen upon your audience.”

Thinking better of his refusal, Greylancer said, “Come,” and began walking. The path
underfoot was muddy. The clay caked on his boots was red.

“Lord Greylancer is a guest of Lord Mayerling. Any impertinence will not be tolerated,”
the patrolman announced.

The villagers were struck motionless even before the patrolman’s warning. So ferocious
was Greylancer in battle and so sudden the end that they had lost the will to fight.

Soon the lavish shuttlecraft and the much smaller, but elegantly adorned, chariot
blazed a path to the hills south of the village and landed beyond the walls of Mayerling’s
impregnable castle two minutes later.

†

Despite the modest sculptures and furnishings, the choice and skillful placement of
jewels and metal adornments reflected Mayerling’s taste, integrity, and fortitude
in such a way that a guest—even an enemy—might feel at ease. Such was the drawing
room where Greylancer confronted Mayerling’s coffin.

While such a meeting might appear eerie and impolite to humans, to a Noble consigned
to sleeping in his coffin during the day, receiving a guest in this defenseless, vulnerable
state, albeit from within a well-fortified coffin, was the highest form of hospitality.

“I’ve been expecting you, Lord Greylancer.”

“So it seems. How did you come to learn that I walk during the day?”

“There isn’t a Noble in the Frontier that doesn’t know. I’m surprised the Privy Council
hasn’t twisted your arm to tell them your secret.”

“They have.”

“So they have.” The voice inside the coffin let out a low laugh, imagining the outcome
of the exchange. “And?”

“Virgilius was chancellor then. I pretended to lose my footing and knocked him with
this lance, and he never asked of it again. After five attempted break-ins and an
attack on my sister, my secret is still safe.”

“Oh? How did you accomplish that?”

“Any uninvited guest that dared enter never left. As for the poor soul that attacked
my sister, he fell victim to a more formidable enemy than I. The questions and summonses
ceased after that.”

“I hear Chancellor Virgilius never regained the use of his arm.” And then, the voice,
brightening with curiosity, said, “Perhaps the lands to the east, outside Noble rule,
have some method of accomplishing this magical feat of yours?”

“I’ve heard likewise, but nothing more.”

“Would you care for a smoke?”

At Mayerling’s prompting, Greylancer cast a glance at the gold cigar box on the marble
table. “No,” he answered.

“We tried using the energy source from one of the OSB’s energy emitters to aid plant
growth. You may find it to your liking.”

“It’s a cancer risk,” Greylancer said, either in jest or sarcasm. The Nobility were
not in the least affected by radiation exposure.

Nevertheless, Greylancer took a cigar out of the box with some interest and cut the
end with a cutter.

Lighting the end with a lighter from the table, he took a long drag and let out a
swirl of blue smoke.

He lifted another cigar out of the box and said, “Quite good. And the radiation produces
this?”

“Radiation discovered in the OSB’s star system. It may have many uses.”

Greylancer took another drag and said, “Well now—”

“You desire a duel.”

“Tell me about Chancellor Cornelius first. There is a plot, I hear. Any truth to the
rumor?”

“Yes, I heard it from the chancellor himself, though I doubt he’ll ever speak of it
again.”

“Who else is involved?”

“To my knowledge, every last member of the Privy Council.”

Greylancer flashed a bitter smile. “Fascinating. It appears the odds are stacked against
you.”

“I’m not so naïve as to choose a castle defense in a battle that I intend to lose.”

“Yes, I am quite aware. My duty is to prove just that and to dash that dream. Duchess
Mircalla—I should say, the supreme commander—”

“I hear the woman is quite the tactician.”

“Against men as well.”

“Have you been prey to her advances?” Mayerling asked, his tone dropping low.

“Not as of yet. But Macula has been ‘bitten.’”

“Zeus?”

“He’s always had a weakness for beautiful women. But I suspect Mircalla is not the
only prize he is after.”

“What is Zeus plotting? He can’t be…?”

“I do not know. It’s something I sensed when last we met in this very castle. Merely
a hunch. I can’t say for certain.”

“The probability?”

“About thirty percent.”

“I’ll trust those odds.”

“Damn if you aren’t a bore to talk to.” Greylancer raised his right hand, wherein
the silver lance awaited its bloodbath. “Fortune be with you.”

The lance pierced through the coffin and into the floor.

It took all of two breaths for the blood spilled forth from the gash in the coffin
to stain the floor.

Greylancer’s lips curled into a grin.

He swung the lance in an arc, heaving the coffin effortlessly through the air.

Wood, it was not. The stone coffin weighed several hundred kilograms. It smashed against
the wall thirty meters away with a deafening crash and fell to the floor. Neither
the wall nor floor was damaged.

“Your guest departs!” Greylancer bellowed toward the door some distance away.

†

Greylancer was summoned to the operations room at the counterinsurgency’s headquarters
as soon as Mircalla awakened.

“I’ve read the records.” The fair-skinned beauty stared at Greylancer with a look
that was neither disapproving nor cordial. The counterinsurgency base camp was equipped
with a surveillance system in case of enemy attack. “I cannot maintain discipline
when my subcommander acts alone and without notice.”

“You are entirely right.” Greylancer nodded, contrite. At minimum, the law must be
observed. This much was in his blood.

“So?” Mircalla asked, frigid.

“I paid a visit to Mayerling’s castle and impaled him as he slept inside his coffin.”

“Oh?” Her crimson lips rounded into an O, but her eyes, shaped like arrowheads, were
bereft of emotion. “That much I believe. What surprises me is your safe return after
killing the castle’s lord.”

“Then you do not know Mayerling. He left orders to treat an invited guest as a guest
to the last, regardless of his own fate. His orders are inviolable.”

“Then it appears this battle is over.”

“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid,” he said, hiding none of the contempt for the woman’s
shallowness. “If there is even one vassal of mettle in that castle, he will defend
the castle to the last man, even after his lord has perished, and for certain if Mayerling
ordered his men to resist to the last.”

“According to your characterization of him, Mayerling doesn’t seem the kind of Noble
to give such an order.”

“
If
there is a vassal of any mettle. On the other hand, they might agree to a bloodless
surrender if so ordered by Mayerling. Therein lies the gamble.”

“Hmm, we’ve been appealing for the castle’s surrender, but we have yet to hear a response.
Let us discuss a course of action at the war council meeting. But say nothing of our
meeting here.”

Greylancer grinned again, this time in admiration.
A shrewd move.

In the event the enemy refused to surrender, and it became known that Mayerling was
dead, the morale of the counterinsurgency forces would increase tenfold. Meanwhile
the enemy’s morale would typically decrease; however, in Mayerling’s case, the veneration
his vassals held for their lord was far more powerful than even a Noble’s true death.
Should the two armies come to blows, the counterinsurgency would face a surprisingly
intractable enemy, killing its will to fight. As commander, Mircalla could ill afford
to engage in a long, unnecessary battle.

†

As a result of the war council meeting, the generals, fuming from the morning’s attack,
had reached a consensus. They would commence the siege as soon as the barrier was
neutralized.

“But our neutralizer will not work against Mayerling’s barrier.”

When one man voiced this reality, another said, “We have no choice but to wait until
the science corps make the necessary enhancements to the neutralizer. And so, we must
bide our time.”

“There is no other way.”

“Agreed, agreed.”

A malaise filled the war room.

On the battlefield, the warriors gathered here would burn in pursuit of the enemy.
But once war-making was understood as a futile exercise, the blood pulsing through
their bodies turned cold, their vitality quelled. For better or for worse, this was
the Noble’s nature. Perhaps it was also the cause of the Nobility’s eventual decline.
They were ignorant of Greylancer’s breach of enemy lines and murder of Mayerling.
Commander Mircalla had kept the facts from even the top generals.

Greylancer, who’d closed his eyes and relegated himself to bystander, suddenly, angrily,
popped his eyes open. So insufferable was the air of indecision that he had reached
the end of his rope.

Would he press to ride his chariot once more and lead the attack on the enemy? Or
would he defy Mircalla’s intentions and tell them that Mayerling had perished?

Like fish noticing boiling magma spouting out of murky waters, the warriors turned
in Greylancer’s direction.

At least, they attempted to until—

A fist came crashing down atop the table.

“Lord Greylancer.” The young Duke of Krolock from the Southern Frontier sector turned
his flaming eyes from his trembling fist up to the great warrior. His given name was
Darshan. “Never mind the others. But how can you sink into this morass of cowardice?
This is intolerable! I won’t stand for it! One barrier, and you’re fit to sit idly
by, staring off into enemy territory instead of marching upon it—and you call yourself
a warrior? Commander Mircalla, if you intend to attack the castle, I beseech you,
give the order now.”

“And if I do, what do you propose to do?” Mircalla asked. Despite her frigid tone,
she looked upon the young Noble with kindness.

“As impregnable as the barrier may be, it cannot stretch ten kilometers under the
surface. Perhaps the commander is aware of the House of Krolock’s renown for our subterranean
attacks.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it with my own eyes from your father. The underground mole, code name
Landross.”

“Indeed, we have a weapon by that name. The temperature of the magma immediately under
the earth’s crust in this part of the world is approximately a thousand degrees. My
men will move through the magma at will, advance below Mayerling’s castle, and break
through from below. I beseech you to grant my men that honor.”

“Denied,” answered Mircalla. At this, Greylancer felt his temples twitch. She continued,
“The decisions made by the war council are ironclad. No one shall disobey. Besides
which, the enemy will not give in to brute force. So long as I am supreme commander,
no one shall die in vain.”

The young general’s entire body trembled with anger. His youth struggled to forgive
the vagaries of battle.

“The commander’s orders.” The men’s eyes shot back to Greylancer as the giant stood
from his chair. With the gazes of the generals gathered on him, he strode toward Darshan
Krolock and rested a hand on his shoulder. “We are forbidden to defy them even in
death. But in the very least, there is one true warrior in our midst. Commander, I
yearn to depart for my nightly patrol.”

“This concludes the war council.” Mircalla’s icy voice settled in the spines of the
generals.

†

Beneath the moonlight, the silver-blue exteriors of the steel moles seemed to shiver
in want of returning underground.

The hulking vehicles, measuring a hundred meters long, were capable of twisting themselves
through the ground like enormous insects, albeit ones with conical drills instead
of mandibles and caterpillar belts instead of six legs.

Soldiers were standing at attention next to the ten moles.

They were about to deploy a forbidden assault from a barrier-protected area of the
camp that would allow them to elude detection. The eyes of the soldiers shone crimson,
and their white fangs gleamed in the shadows cast by their helmets.

Standing before the men already briefed of their mission and awaiting their command,
Darshan Krolock, himself outfitted in battle gear, quietly pointed at the steel insects.
“Board your vehicles.”

The men ran without a sound.

As Krolock moved to follow, a rust-tinged voice called out from behind, “Do you go?”

“Lord Greylancer.” The eyes of the young leader were filled with reverence. “You knew?”

“No.” Greylancer shook his head. “It was only that I would do the same.”